


Hufflepuff

by forthosebelow



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 2012 era shield highjinks, First Kiss, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, bad reasoning all around, why the hell not post a fic I wrote years ago #yolo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 21:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthosebelow/pseuds/forthosebelow
Summary: Another marriage of convenience fic. Gotta f-ing love 'em.





	Hufflepuff

**Author's Note:**

> 'Kay so I found this on an old thumb drive? I wrote a whole fic and never posted it? Idk why, I don't completely hate it. But in a post Endgame world, some naive Clint/Phil SHEILD shenanigans is what we (I mean me, I've been bingeing old fics since I saw the movie for some sense of comfort) need.
> 
> Some slight/brief noncon. Fury's a real, kinda homophobic, asshole. All spelling/grammatical mistakes are my own from several years ago. I apologize.

“Hufflepuff” was not a normal word to repeat in your head over and over again on your wedding day. Phil wasn’t sure what someone was supposed to repeat, maybe “excited” or “love” but certainly not a Hogwarts’ House. His suit was a little nicer than usual and Nick was standing next to him on the left with the white gold bands in his pocket. He’d had an almost constant pout on his face because Phil had refused a bachelors party. Nick could have technically officiated the service but Coulson had a horrible picture in his head, “We are gathered here today to watch these two motherfucker get married.” Maybe Phil was a romantic because he didn’t want “motherfucker” as part of his vows. So the justice of the peace was on his right. Maybe this should have been a church wedding. When was his last confession? He’d been fourteen maybe? They didn’t have chairs and Hill was shifting trying to relieve the pressure her heels were causing. “I’m sure they’ll be here any minuet.” Coulson wasn’t sure why he felt comforted by Fury’s words. Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff. Natasha slipped into the room and this was it. Phillip J. Coulson, Hufflepuff and former Catholic, was getting married.

*~*~*

“So what are you trying to tell me Nick?” Coulson was many things but patient wasn’t on the list and currently he was already a little on edge with Fury because the director had called him into his office and proceeded to make small talk for a few minutes.  
“We gotta find someone to marry Barton”  
“Tell me why again.”  
“Because if he becomes a member of a respectable family or if his spouse has some political power he should be protected and it will make him look like a stand up citizen.”  
“So are we talking speed dating or eHarmony or tindr?”  
“What does an old man like you know about tindr?”  
“Swipe right or something.”  
“We just have to get Barton a bride or a husband. Do we even know what he’s into? Did him and Romanov ever…” Fury trailed off and looked concerned or confused.  
“Boss can you really not say sex or intercourse or coitus?”  
“I started to think about Barton’s bare ass.” Fury started to shoot Phil dirty looks for not automatically agree that seeing Clint’s ass would be scaring. “Sorry Coulson, forgot you were into the boys. Wait, is Barton your type?” Phil pretended to ignore the question. “Oh god Phil. Why? I did not need that mental image.”  
“Then why did you ask?”  
“A life partner for Barton. That’s all we’re talking about here”

Clint’s face was priceless but it would have been funnier if Coulson hadn’t just told him that he had to get married. The face shifted from “what the fuck!?” to Clint’s mission face. Which was terrifying. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had to do a lot of things for missions, Clint had done a lot of things for missions. But this wasn’t a mission. They would never ask someone to do something as personal as marriage. Phil couldn’t count on his ten fingers how many times Clint had taken his clothes off for a mission. Both girls and guys had been seduced by some allies that Clint was playing. But marriage was different, marriage was more intimate. Clint knew as well as Natasha did that his body was a commodity. That his muscles and kaleidoscope eyes were drool worthy. Sex didn’t have anything to do with his heart, he always had the advantage.

“Barton,” Phil started and then remembered that the point he was trying to make was that this wasn’t a mission, “Clint. We just have to find someone for you to marry, preferable someone with a good political standing. You aren’t in a relationship currently, are you?”  
“You know that I’m not Coulson.”  
“We are not going to force you to marry someone. We don’t, I don’t, want you to marry someone you can’t stand.”  
“So you’re gonna play wingman while we sit in bar, drinking cheap beer and waiting for some desperate yet still respectable suit tries to pick me up?”  
“I’ve already started collecting names and information on any potential candidates. Would you prefer man or a woman?”  
“Would one look better?”  
“Well if you marry a man there will of course be criticism because a good portion of America is seemingly against same sex marriage. But also parts of America still see women as weak and may not seem a powerful of an image. So they both have some disadvantages.”  
“Are all the people on your list open to dating men?”  
“Yes. They are all looking for men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five.”

There were twelve pages of profiles. Clint didn’t automatically say no to any of them. They decided that Coulson actually should play wingman, over coms. If anything came across odd or creepy he would know and be able to pull Clint away. Also there would be proof if any of the dates were as boring as soup.

Date number one was with a woman in her mid-forties. The restaurant was nice and Clint dressed for the ambiance. Coulson waited in the car and fed Clint broad details about the women. Clint didn’t reject her. “She’s nice.” Is all that he said and Phil knew he had no room to disagree. The lady was sweet and relatively normal.

Number two was with a man in his mid-thirties who would not stop talking about his fungal infection. Clint left twenty minutes into the date. When he got back to the car all he could do was shudder.

Most of the rest of the dates were unmemorable. Some droned on and on about insignificant points about their own lives. One lady had automatically started talking about tying Clint up and making him beg. A few never showed up. Clint would tell him about fifteen minutes after the date was supposed to be there and Phil would tell him to stay where he was. Coulson would sit in the opposite seat and they would have dinner. 

The ones Phil hated the most were the middle aged men who had an ex-wife or two and thought that Clint was just something new to play with. They’d pay for a steak dinner, wear a nice suit, talk to Clint like he was some sort of child, and make vague innuendos all throughout dinner. What Coulson hated more than the men themselves was that Clint didn’t toss them aside.

There was only one person that seemed like someone Clint would actually like. This one had had called and suggested that they meet at a bar. They’d eaten hot wings for dinner and Clint had come out glowing from beer and his own grin. Coulson decided not to sort through the emotions he started experiencing.

It took a month and a half to exasperate their options and Fury was getting testy. They started scheduling second dates with the top ten candidates. Three declined and Phil thought they were idiots. Fury gave Clint a month to get married. They knocked anyone who seemed flighty off the list leaving five, two women and three men. After the second dates only three were left. On a third date with the only lady left, she politely told Clint that she didn’t really see them going anywhere. Leaving bar guy and one of the men Coulson hated.

“I don’t wanna go.” Clint barley kept the whine out of his voice. Coulson smiled and looped another tie around Clint’s neck.  
“You don’t have to go.” That wasn’t true. Clint had nine days until he had to get married or leave S.H.E.I.L.D  
“The restaurant’s attached to a hotel.”

Coulson sighed. Clint was finally accepting that this wasn’t just another mission. This was personal. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”  
“Can I borrow one of your condoms along with the tie?”  
“Are you planning on giving it back?”  
“I just don’t wanna risk anything.”  
“I’m not entirely sure I have any that are in date but we can stop by the drugstore.”

Phil knew Clint was freaking out when he didn’t make a joke about Phil’s nonexistent sex life. They were standing close enough that Clint’s breath was rustling Coulson’s eye lashed. Phil wished he hadn’t been so anal about the knot on Clint’s borrowed tie because the smell of Clint’s after shave was distracting. “Don’t think that you owe this guy anything.”  
“You’re right. I am a precious flower. I must protect my virtue.” Clint laughed and broke the tension in the room or was just in Phil’s head.

Clint’s com was hidden in a leather bracelet but at the time Coulson prayed that one day he would invent time travel so he could tell his past self to put the com on Clint’s shirt so maybe the mic would have gotten buried and he wouldn’t have to hear what was going on in the hotel room. It sounded like kissing and he was pretty sure some clothes had been removed. Phil wondered which pant was Clint’s. 

“Call me daddy.” That certainly was not Clint.  
“I…” that was Clint.  
“You don’t get a choice in this.”

Coulson was out of the car, through a back door, and was running up the stairs before that bastard had finished his sentence. Someone whimpered. Then came the sound of slapping. All Phil could do was hope that it was Clint doing the hitting. “You’re such a slut, you’re still hard.” More whimpering and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. “Say it, whore.” The other man growled in Coulson’s ear as he burst into the hotel room. Clint was in his underwear, laying on his back on the center of the bed. The other man was hovering over him, hand open and raised to strike again. It wasn’t until Coulson had met Clint’s eye that he cried “daddy”. Phil got the feeling it was aimed at him but it was at that moment the other man realized that there was someone else in the room. “Didn’t you see the ‘do not disturb’ sign!?”

Coulson ignored him, “Are you okay, Clint?” Clint nodded and rolled off the bed, knocking the other man away. Phil forced his attention to turn to the other man, “I should call the cops.”  
“Let’s just go Phil.” It hurt Coulson to walk away after Clint had gathered his clothes.

Clint primped for the next date with bar guy. Smudged eyeliner on his bottom lash line and ignored Coulson. Phil was worried, just thirty-six hours ago Clint had been slapped around and called a whore by some guy who was desperate to get into his pants. He thought maybe Clint should take some time and process that before throwing himself back into the fray. Clint assured Coulson that this was different because he actually liked this guy, thought he funny and hot and sweet. It sickened Coulson to listen to him talk like that.

After the night before Phil wasn’t going to let Clint out of his sight. So he sat at the bar as the two other men squished themselves together in a tiny booth tucked in a dingy corner. Eventually they started kissing and Coulson couldn’t stop himself from tracking the line of Clint’s throat. They broke apart and started talking in hushed tones that the coms barley picked up, so all Phil could hear were small pieces of the conversation.  
“So hot.”  
“I wanna…”  
“…lick…”  
“…why so fast?”  
“It’s…”  
“Fuck.”  
“I have to…”  
“…marriage?”

The conversation just sounded angrier and angrier until Clint was left alone at the table, blinking away tears. All he let Phil do was drive him home.

The next day found Natasha sitting cross legged in one of the chairs across from Coulson’s desk when he unlocked the door and let himself in. Natasha had kept herself out of the marriage business, saying that she trusted Phil’s judgment. He hated disappointing her. “You can’t let him give up.”  
“I’m pretty sure we’ve exploited all our options.”

Natasha handed him a cup of coffee, nice coffee from the café down the street and not from the cafeteria. “I read the entire folder regarding this matter and I feel like you ignored a very important candidate.”

Phil wasn’t exactly panicking, but his stomach did tumble. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Clint has a week before he loses everything that’s important to him. Which means you have six days before you lose your two best agents because you know that I will follow Clint wherever he goes. So think very carefully before you dismiss your last option.”

Clint was found on the range. He had to be aching for mission, it had been months and the knock, pull, release pattern was most comforting thing Clint knew how to do. Phil hated to bother him. “I wasn’t completely honest with you.” Clint turned back to look at him, a bead of sweat rolling down one tense arm. “There was one more candidate.” Clint raised an eyebrow and waited for Phil to continue. “Me.” The other eyebrow shot up. “I’m interested in men and have a decent enough political standing associated with my name to provide the protection you need.”  
“What are you saying?” Clint’s voice was quieter than Coulson had ever heard it.  
“I’m asking you to marry me.”

*~*~*

Contrary to popular belief, two quiet people are very rarely drawn to each other. All Phil’s friends growing up and all throughout his military career, had been loud. They talked all the time, used their hands when they talked too, wild gestures, and talked over each other, and Phil had always been more than happy to just sit back and listen, laugh, and occasionally have a comeback to some joke ore insult thrown in his direction. Listening was easy and it got people to like him. Everyone liked to feel heard and because they assumed that the quiet ones never talked to anyone they felt safe to tell secrets. Being quiet was useful.

One his first day at S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson’s S.O. made a terrible mistake and paired Coulson with Maria Hill. Basically he was pointed towards her and was told make friends the girl with the stringy bun and over sized t-shirts. It took six months for any actual conversation to take place. They had both made friends with other people and they didn’t dislike each other, they ate most meals together, but they were both just quiet. It wasn’t until Maria found out that Coulson didn’t know what Harry Potter was that they actually had something to talk about. They went to every movie premiere together and signed up for Pottermore the day the sight opened. They sat on Hill’s bed on their own separate laptops, drinking tea, pretending to be British, and hoping that Fury never asked why they both took a sick day. Maria was a Gryffindor and Phil was a Hufflepuff.

*~*~*

The wedding ceremony was a blur. Even the kiss, their first kiss, seemed fuzzy in Coulson’s memories. Clint was still on leave and probably would be for a while so things regarding his status would die down a bit. Phil was supposed to report in at oh-seven-hundred the next morning. Fury did give them a gift card to nice steak house and all five of them went to an early dinner together. Natasha and Maria told the server that Clint and Phil were newlyweds and they got a free slice of cake. Phil remembered the cake more than the kiss.

There had been two days full of paper work between the engagement and the wedding. All Phil had the time to do was pull extra blankets from the closet and pile them on the couch, change the sheets on his bed, and buy some sugary cereal and milk. He hadn’t vacuumed or dusted or done any more tiding then burying a few ‘adult’ DVDs that he had bought when he was drunk and too lazy to wait for something to load with his crappy Wi-Fi connection speed. Coulson felt embarrassed when he led Clint into his apartment. Clint clutched the backpack with his toothbrush and change of clothes like what was happening was some sort of grade school sleepover and not something that might lead to the vow of “death do us part” being old age and not gunshot wounds or Clint finding someone better. 

Almost everything in the apartment was visible from the front door. There was small kitchen table with two chairs, a couch and TV, and two large wooded bookshelves full of Captain America memorabilia. It didn’t look like Clint would be needing the grand tour. The bedroom was off the kitchen and the bathroom was off the bedroom. Phil gestured to the open bedroom door, “You take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch until we can find a bigger place.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“You want the couch?”  
“We can share the bed, Coulson. I hardly ever bite.”

Phil’s bed wasn’t large, just a standard queen. Coulson was acutely aware of how close Clint was. Listening to Clint’s breathing was almost mesmerizing and it made Coulson wish that Clint smoked. Not so he would kill brain cells or get lung cancer but just to see a glowing red ember held steady between two of Clint’s beautiful fingers and his lips puckered to drag in the nicotine. Maybe he’d burn his fingers and suck on those, spit sliding past knuckles, it would feel so good he’d moan and accidentally choke himself on his own fingers…

“Phil?” Coulson felt himself being pulled from the fantasy. “Are you asleep?” He couldn’t believe he had let himself get so carried away when Clint was less than a foot away from him.  
“Nah.”  
“I can’t sleep.” Phil glanced at the clock. It was nine-oh-nine.  
“That’s because we put ourselves to bed ridiculously early.” 

Clint’s laugh shook the bed. “Movie?”  
“Yeah.”

They watched Pirates of the Caribbean and ate dry cereal and Clint lamented the lack of popcorn. He said he had some microwave bags at his S.H.I.E.L.D. barracks. Phil didn’t scold him about he was not supposed have food items in private quarters because what if the exterminators, which would have to come to get rid the rats or ants, were terrorists? He didn’t because what was the point, tomorrow Clint would go on base collect his personal effects, including his bow, and move them into Phil’s apartment. 

Coulson had always prided himself on his ability to get up and get going. Clint put him to shame. He was up at the first beep of the alarm and was bugging Phil about how the shower worked before Coulson could think properly. It somehow made getting out the door that much easier.

Phil walked Clint down to the barracks and looked in at the tiny room. He could imagine it filled with nick-knacks but now everything was boxed away and sitting next to a duffel bag of clothes. The boxes were labeled in Clint’s chicken scratch that Phil couldn’t make out. “I cleared out part of the closet and some of the draws for you to use.” Clint nodded. “Do you have your key?”  
“Oh my god! Yes, Dad, I have my key.” Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re not the first person I’ve moved in with, I know the routine.”  
“I just wanted to make sure…”  
“I know, Coulson.”  
“Do you want help moving the boxes?”  
“Nah, I got ‘em.”

“Okay.” Phil turned around to stand in the doorway, “Have a good day.” He hated the look on Clint’s face. Clint nodded, not looking at him, eyes focused on his cleared out room. Phil wanted to touch him, to try to make it better, but he didn’t have a clue how. So, he just walked away.  
“Give ‘em hell, dear!” Clint called after him.

Coulson spent most of the day imaging what Clint was doing. Had he put his clothes away? Were Clint’s towels now mixed in with his? Did he even go back to the apartment? Did he go someplace else? Did he get wherever he went safely? Did Natasha ever pick him up to take him to the apartment like she said she would? It was never a good sign when he started questioning Natasha.

“Coulson?” Hill pocked her head around his office door, “Fury said to go home.”  
“I’m fine.”  
“Your coffees cold.” Phil took a sip to try to prove that, no, it was fine but he couldn’t hide the face he pulled at the acrid taste. “Did you get the mission reports completed?” Coulson handed her a thick stack of manila folders. “I’m impressed.” 

Phil gave her a weak smile, “Why did you ever doubt me?”  
“Because you’ve got a hot new bride—“  
“—groom—“  
“Waiting for you at home.”  
“Why must you be so crass Maria?”  
“I said nothing that could be considered crass, you mean, prudish, old man. Anyways, Fury said you could go home. Did you not hear that? He’s actually giving you time off. Take it before I do.”  
“Fine.”

Phil texted Clint on the way home and asked him if he needed to pick up something for dinner on the way. The text back was almost instantaneous and all it said was “no”. Clint had probably already eaten, Coulson figured.

The hallway in front of his apartment’s door smelled amazing. Mrs. Oscar’s Wife, Coulson knew he really needed to learn her name, had family over apparently. But the smell just became stronger instead of fading away as he disabled the alarm system and walked into the living room. “Clint?”  
“Ow!” Phil followed the banging around the kitchen island to find Clint with his head in one of the bottom cabinets. “Every time I try to stand up I hit my head.”

Coulson chuckled, mostly to himself. Clint looked silly and his ass was out and Phil hated how he actually got to look at that ass without the threat of being caught. However, he couldn’t just leave Clint there struggling and giving himself a concussion, “Just pull straight out. Don’t try to pull out and up.”  
“Oh my god finally!” Clint exclaimed as he sat down on the floor in front of the cabinet once his head and shoulders were clear. “I was in there for ten minutes!”  
“I’m sorry.”

Clint sprang to his feet in one clean movement, “I cooked!”  
“It smells amazing.”

Clint gestured behind him to the counter, “I might’ve gone a little over board because it’s been years since I had a stove.” The counter was piled high with food that all looked delicious. “I hope you like Mexican!”

There were enough leftovers to feed them both for a month it felt like and Coulson could not remember the last time he had eaten so well on a weekday where he wasn’t meeting up with Pepper for lunch. “So I cooked most of the day and what did you do?”  
“Some paperwork and then Fury sent me home early.”  
“So you could see your blushing bride?” Clint fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to flounce the long, luscious locks he most certainly did not have.  
“Something like that.” It was good to see Clint laughing, it felt like forever since he had.

Phil woke up half way through the night after dreaming about driving on a long, deserted, narrow highway looking for a bathroom. He didn’t remember that he should’ve closed the bathroom door, he didn’t even remember that there was supposed to be another person in his bed. All he knew was that he needed to take a piss. He was tucking himself back into his flannel sleep pants when he heard soft voices coming from the living room. Coulson was a highly trained field agent but the fear of robbers reduced him to the same little boy who thought the bigger neighbor boys, who had taken his baseball and bat, would come to his bedroom, on the second floor and above his mother’s rose bushes, to steal his other stuff. Sometimes defining moments were ridicules. 

He made himself calm down and pad out of the bedroom so he could prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid of some petty criminals. He was a goddamn S.H.I.E.L.D. agent! The TV was on and playing a commercial for a blender that could process a phone book apparently. “Phil?” He stopped walking and pressed himself close against the nearest wall. “Coulson?” Phil let himself sag for a moment realizing that it was just Clint. The man who now lived with him and could watch infomercials at two in the morning all he wanted.

“Could you not sleep?” He asked the side of Clint’s face. Thankfully, all the fear had seeped out of his voice.  
“Nah.” Phil moved Clint’s feet so he could sit down on one end of the couch and let them fall back down.  
“I hope I didn’t freak you out too much?”  
“You know I’m all tough and shit.”  
“Is that on your business cards? ‘Phil Coulson, level eight S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He’s all tough and shit. Call this number’.”  
“I thought about it but it seemed a little long.”

Clint wiggled his toes on Phils lap. “One of the boxes I hid in the top of your closet today is full of shit I’ve bought from infomercials like this. I have a child’s sleeping bag that looks like a dog and is supposed to work like a fitted sheet.”  
“I have a bunch of really cheap Captain America actions figures from Walmart. I buy a new one on almost every mission.”  
“That’s cute.”  
“No, its tough and shit.”

The toe wiggling was distracting. 

They had been close for years, a relationship formed out of necessity. It had been with Clint that Phil had gotten his first S.O. position, he had even brought him in. They liked the same kind of jokes and didn’t like the same kind of music. They both loved most kinds of food but hated celery even when it was cooked into something. They were both dog people. They had a lot in common, they meshed well. It had been two months after that Clint had been brought in when he was basically still a kid, and when he was still under his first supervising officer, that Hill had first called Phil out on his crush. Coulson had felt like a creepy old man looking at a nineteen year old while his best friend was trying to plan his fortieth birthday party. That crush had never really gone away, just had been repressed, and ten years later with the added threat of Clint losing his cleared criminal status, it had escalated to the point where just Clint’s feet in his lap made Phil wish for anything.

“I sorta want the blender, Coulson.”

They spent the night on the couch. At some point during that time, Clint had flipped himself around so his head has facing the same direction as Phil’s. His knees were hooked over the arm of the couch and his head was near the middle of it. Coulson woke up with Clint’s face smooshed against his stomach and one of his own arms asleep and the other wrapped protectively around Clint. He tried to shift to find out just how stuck he was when he noticed something else: Clint was hard and his hips were making small circles against Coulson’s shins. One instinct Phil clutched Clint tighter and Clint’s hips ground faster. Phil knew that this needed to stop before his own cock could leave a wet patch of precome across Clint’s chest. Then Clint whimpered deep down in his throat, biting off the noise before it could become anymore taxing on Phil’s senses. “Baby?” Coulson felt the blood rush to his cheeks at the pet name he had let slip out and the blush barley subsided when Clint didn’t start to wake up. Phil cleared his throat and tried again, “Clint?”

It was that time that Clint started to stir, “Wha-?”  
“I have to get ready for work.”

Clint started to roll of the couch then stopped when he realized what he had been doing in his sleep. “Oh god—“  
“Its okay—“  
“I’m so sorry, Coulson!”  
“—It happens.”

Phil had to assume that Clint had found the access point to the ventilation system because he made himself impossibly scarce the rest of the morning. Coulson ate his cereal in a silence he already thought should be filled with noise.

“You look like hell, Coulson.” Phil glanced up from his tray of cafeteria food at Fury, who had taken the opposite seat.  
“Thanks, Boss.”  
“Is being married to Barton going to affect your ability to do your job?”

Phil set down the dry turkey sandwich, “No, why would you ask that?”  
“Because you’re pouting.”  
“I’m not pouting.”  
“Is the honeymoon already over?”  
“We didn’t have a honeymoon because the bastard I call my boss didn’t want to give me time off.”

Fury sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Seriously, Phil, what happened? I’ve never seen you looking like this.”  
“You’re just concerned because you think that your ‘one good eye’ or whatever you call me behind my back won’t be able to do the job he’s been doing for years.”  
“Of course that’s what I’m worried about! But according to HR talking about personal problems creates bonding and will make me seem like a better boss.”  
“I’ve seen you naked, Nick, I consider us pretty close.”  
“Have you seen Barton naked?”  
“Yes.”  
“When he wasn’t in medical or on a mission?”  
“No.”  
“Ah so you aren’t being sexually satisfied. You know, Phil, there’s this magical little—or big in my case if you know what I mean—thing called masturbation and the Mrs. never has to know about it.”

Coulson pushed his food tray away, “I don’t want to discuss this with you.”  
“Should I call for Maria?”

If Fury wanted to play this game then Coulson could give him exactly what he wanted. “I woke up to Barton basically humping my leg.”

Nick’s face fell into a grimace of disgust at the mental image, “I thought I could do this but I just can’t.”

Phil sighed with relief when Fury walked away. It was nice that he at least tried to care. Even if the whole thing was just embarrassing for both of them, Nick, or at least Phil assumed, meant the best. Unfortunately, Fury had gotten an image stuck in Phil’s head that wouldn’t go away.

About three years after Clint had become a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he had been shot while on a mission. All but immediately after Couslon had realized that Barton needed to get pulled. Dark blood was oozing out of Clint’s tack gear but he refused to pull back. All Phil could do was watch as more blood stained Clint’s clothes every time he loosed another arrow. When the last bad guy was down or captured, Clint had sat where he was and waited for the medics to get to him. It was the first and the only time he was conscious and didn’t try to argue his way out of going to medical. Phil had followed the med team that carried Clint’s stretcher, Barton’s eyes were closed and his knuckles white against his balled up fists. The gray undershirt looked black from all the blood and had to be cut away from the bullet holes. Coulson just watched as they worked, marveled at how blue Clint’s veins were as the IV was inserted, watched Clint’s eyelids flutter open and back closed as the drugs hit him. Barton mummered for Natasha but she was on the other side of the world under deep cover. 

There were four holes in a cluster on Clint’s abdomen. “We think they perforated his liver” One of the nurses said, “We’ve got to take him to surgery.” Coulson sat in the waiting room and tried to focus on the paper work for the mission but after filling out the necessary medical forms for Clint, S.H.I.E.L.D ID number, social security number, known allergies, Coulson found that he couldn’t focus. He knew Clint’s numbers better than his own and there was a ball of worry inching its way from his stomach, filling his throat. He stumbled over his words when a nurse came to tell him that Barton would pull through but he’d be in much better shape if he’d gotten pulled immediately. Phil cursed himself, while may no longer be Clint’s active S.O., he was still in charge of Cint’s care. The injury had happened on Coulson’s watch, he’d let Clint make the it worse. Barton might be an adult, perfectly capable of making decisions about his body but he had allowed Phil to care. And it bothered Phil just how much he cared. There were more agents that he supervised, but he never worried about any of his agents like he worried about Clint. He had never worried about anyone like he worried about Clint. Clint was impossible to ignore. He was reckless and beautiful and Coulson only had eyes for him. 

Eventually the nurse motioned him back to Clint’s recovery room. Clint was out for a few hours post surgery and Coulson couldn’t tear himself away from the barley stuffed chair he’d pulled beside the hospital bed, he wanted to be there when Clint woke up. So he could check on one of his agents of course, not because he would have felt incredibly guilty because it was Clint. Beautiful, reckless, Clint.

Clint refused to put a shirt on the whole time he was in the hospital. Once the paper gown was replaced with sweat pants, Clint had bunched his face into a incredibly adorable pout when a loose t-shirt had been handed to him or whenever someone suggested he he put one on. Once the stitches were out, and the scars no longer looked angry, Phil realized he was having a difficult time focusing on anywhere other than Clint’s well defined chest. When Clint would laugh his abs would flex and his face would light up.

Coulson hated that he was so enraptured by Clint’s body. Now that they were married, lived together, shared a bed, he knew that his attraction was inappropriate. Phil had thought about getting married, in some far off, alternate future, where he could have a relationship with anniversaries and inside jokes, not like with Audry. He should call Audry, tell her he was married now, tell her he was okay. Marriage was, or hadn’t been, an option before this convenience marriage with Clint. He was attracted to Clint, he cared about Clint deeply, Had thought about taking him on a date, kissing him. But never had he thought about marrying him. He cared about Clint and he cared about S.H.I.E.L.D., so no matter what Natasha wanted to think, marrying Barton was just a way to solve a problem. It was the loyal thing to do. He was a Hufflepuff.

All Phil could see as he filled out sheet after sheet of paperwork, after the awkward lunch encounter with Fury, was Clint laying in that hospital bed. Even with the bullet holes leaving shiny, pink scars, Clint was gorgeous. Every time Coulson blinked the image made itself known again. 

Clint was reading on the couch when Phil got home that evening. The book was propped on the armrest, one of Clint’s fingers hooked in the following page, just waiting to turn it. Unlike the Clint in Coulson head, this one was wearing a shirt, his pecs and abs hidden away. Phil was very happy about it. Clint smiled at him over the pages of Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy and nodded as Phil started to the bedroom to change. When Coulson reentered the main living area, Clint had left his book on the armrest and was pulling something out of the oven. “I figured if your schedule was gonna be erratic I needed to start making food that could sit for awhile.” Clint had made a lasagna and the edges weren’t even burned and he almost looked sheepish as he cut the pan into squares. 

Coulson couldn’t find his voice until he had sat down at the table with salad and a generous portion of the lasagna, “Clint, you don’t have to cook, I’ve been living off take-out for years.”  
“Do you not want it?” Clint’s voice was almost neutral, there was just the barest edge of rejection hidden in it.

“No! No, it looks amazing. Thank you. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”  
“Well, I’ve got to do something with my day.”

Coulson felt them falling into a routine. They’d get up together and drink their coffee. Phil would leave for work and Clint would stay. When Phil returned, they’d eat the dinner that Clint had made for them. Coulson never could figure out what all Clint did with his day. Did he sleep? Did he go out? Phil never knew and it quickly became another thing he worried about. After the dishes were done and the leftovers were stored in the fridge, they’d watch TV and go to bed a foot apart. They never touched and neither would have remembered that they ever had kissed if it wasn’t for the framed picture Natasha had given them of the wedding kiss that sat in one of the bookcases. They looked calm, natural, in the photograph. Like they kissed all the time.

There had been an older couple that had lived next door to Phil when he was growing up. When Phil’s father had died the husband had taken Coulson under his wing. The couple didn’t have kids and when Phil was in the army and his mom joined his dad, care packages still came rolling in. When Coulson turned twenty-one, and just happened to be on leave at the same time, the man had sat him down, gave him a glass of bourbon, and said, “Drink and be a man.” The wife had excused herself to go to her knitting club, where she would probably make Phil another sweater with his name sewed in the collar, earlier in the evening, so the man drank too. The liquor burned as it slid down Phil’s throat and warmed the starchy super that sat in his belly. 

The man had fought in World War Two and had never met Captain America. When he had gotten home after VJ-Day, he realized that everything had changed during the war and not just him. He moved into a nice apartment in upstate New York and had lived as a bachelor for many happy years until his mother told him that he needed to get married and she knew just the young lady. This young lady had been an army nurse during the war and was waitressing when her mother told her that it was a disgrace that she was twenty-two and not married. So the man met the lady and thought that she was the beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. They were married not long after meeting at the insistence of their families. Eventually they moved out of the apartment to a nice neighborhood to start a family and were absolutely devastated when they learned that they couldn’t have kids. They were very thankful when their neighbors, both teachers, had a son. 

Phil knew that story like the back of his hand. He’d heard it countless times. But sitting in the dinning room, having his “first” drink, there were more details. The couple had not been in love when they had gotten married. They didn’t even want kids until it was too late. And even though they never would have chosen each other, they fell in love. Coulson had always thought their story was beautiful, ever since he was a little kid. They were two people who were meant to be together. They belonged together like puzzle pieces.

Now, though, Coulson knew the story even better then he did at twenty-one, because now he was in the middle of it. He was the man and Clint was his beautiful lady. At least he hoped. Maybe they were meant for each other. Maybe this would make for a great story to tell the neighbor kids. Maybe they’d one day love each other. Phil wished he could talk to the couple, ask them what they did to make everything work out, but they were gone now, old age had claimed them.

*~*~*

Clint’s phone started blaring a pop song at four in the morning, and Phil woke up with a sigh and listened to the one sided conversation. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right in. Thank you, sir. Yeah, I’ll let him know. Of course, sir.” Coulson watched as Clint moved around the room in the dark, grabbing clothes and pulling them on, waiting to find out what was happening. “That was Fury,” Clint left the door to the bathroom cracked so Phil could hear him as he peed and brushed his teeth, “He’s got a mission for me. He wants you running the second shift of backend, so you don’t have to head in yet but I gotta go now.”  
“Where’re you headed?”  
“Didn’t tell me.”

It had taken four months after the wedding for Fury to send Hawkeye back out into the field and Coulson knew that Clint was thrilled. He got out of bed and made Clint a to-go cup of coffee as Clint finished his morning routine. It was too early in the morning for Phil to be this worried, Clint hadn’t even left the apartment yet. The cup was passed off as Clint stood too close to him. Clint tensed like he was about to hug Phil but backed away before the gesture could become anything. Coulson wanted to grab him back and kiss him hard but he didn’t, he just followed him to the door and said, “Be safe.” Clint gave him a soft smile.  
“I’ll come home. Promise.”

The second shift of backend meant that Coulson would be monitoring the team during the most boring part of the mission, the waiting part. Every so often the coms would crackle to life and Phil would record whatever small piece of information the agent gave. Clint only called in once and Coulson thought his heart was going to fall onto the desk in front of him, it beat so hard. At the end of the exchange, as Phil noted that the mission was probably going to last a lot longer than they had originally thought, Clint piped up one last time, “I probably won’t be home in time to cook dinner.”  
“I’m sure there’s something in the freezer.”

The other agent in the control room looked… Phil couldn’t put a finger on the exact emotion. Shocked, confused, maybe even a little scared. He gave her a smile. “Be safe.” He whispered into the microphone, hoping Clint hadn’t turned his earpiece off yet. The reply was almost instantaneous,  
“Promise.”

Coulson went back to his apartment when his shift was through, knowing he’d get called back to base if he was needed. The apartment was tidy, no clothes littering the floor, no take-out boxes stacked precariously on the coffee table, there was nothing for Phil to do with his hands. There wasn’t even any laundry. Clint took care of everything. The cupboards had even been rearranged and Coulson found himself opening all of them to find a plate to warm up his super on. He hadn’t realized just how much Clint had changed in his life. The apartment was too quiet, too still. The apartment wasn’t covered in dust. There was proof of Clint everywhere, Phil realized as he ate leftovers, books and magazines, his old quilt tossed over the back of the couch, new cooking utensils, and of course food. Chips, granola bars, and jerky in the cabinets, condiments and lunch meat in the fridge. They now had a candy dish by the TV remote and it was filled with too sweet, hard candies that Clint would suck on whenever they were watching something. 

Before they were married, the apartment had never felt like home to Phil. It was just a place where he slept, showered, and ate. The few personal touches had been added as an after thought, his office on base was better decorated. But now, with Clint, Coulson looked forward to going back there. To going home. Clint had turned four walls into a home. It felt like magic to Phil. Without Clint, it felt like the old apartment again. Dinner wasn’t the same without Clint’s smile and shows weren’t as funny without Clint laughing in all the wrong places. The bed felt too big without Clint beside him, when Coulson stopped waiting for his phone to ring and went to sleep.

Phil was disappointed when the alarm went off at its regular time. No one had called during the night for him to come in and help clean up after the mission. The mission was still going on. He drank his coffee alone and went into work, reminding himself that no news, in this case, really was good news. His office was quiet the whole day, Maria stuck her head in once to let him know that everything was still going according to plan and not to worry. He did worry though. He worried all throughout the paperwork and the mission planning. He worried on the way home and until he fell asleep. He worried through the next day and the one after that.

The mission wasn’t supposed to be a cakewalk but it wasn’t supposed to be long. In and out in a two days, three max. On day six, Coulson let his worry became known. “Sir, what do we have on the St. Paul mission?” Fury sighed and glanced at Coulson and smirked at his defensive stance.  
“Not much. They radioed in two days ago to say that something went wrong and that they’d get back to us.”  
“And they didn’t.”  
“No need to get your panties in a bunch, Phil. Your boy’s gonna be fine.”  
“He’s not ‘my boy’.”  
“How long are you gonna keep telling yourself that?”

Phil sighed and uncrossed his arms before sitting in the chair in front of the director’s desk. Fury sighed and leaned back, “So it was Barton who called in. He said to tell you to stop worrying and something about how he always keeps his promises.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me that two days ago!?”  
“Why can’t you see that you’re in love with him? He is your goddamn husband after all.”  
“Why do you even care, Nick?! You aren’t known for you love advice seeing as you’ve never been in a relationship!”

Fury rubbed his temples. “It’s recently come to my attention that I, myself, am very good at ignoring things right in front of me. Like deadly assassins wearing next to nothing like every time I see them. And I’d think ‘hey, its just a coincidence’. Then they’re in my bed and its pretty hard to ignore. Don’t ignore your deadly assassin.”  
“Wise words.”  
“Don’t mock me, Coulson. Okay, look, I know some shit about Barton. The kind of shit that can only be learned when someone is drunk or on a shit ton of pain meds. Now Barton is often on a shit ton of pain meds because he likes to pull stupid shit. He’s in love with you too. And its not like I needed him to tell me that. Everyone can tell. And if you stop playing sad, old man, who can no longer hold an erection, you might notice. But oh no, he’s just a kid. That kid turns thirty in about four months and hasn’t been in a relationship for three years because he’s been in love with his motherfucking handler.”

Phil stood up so fast it almost knocked the chair over. “All I wanted was to know how the mission was going. I didn’t ask for all of this. Have a good day, Director.” The door to the office did slam in a very satisfying manner. Coulson knew that Fury was totally the kind to make things up just to get a rise out of people. He was analytical, calculating, and often manipulative, but he everything he did, he did for a result. Everything was thought out, planned. For the best.

But this wasn’t a mission, this wasn’t a team. This was Phil’s life. His heart and his home. Those things did not need to be played. 

Natasha found him later, slumped over his desk, refusing to let himself go home. Because it wasn’t home without Clint. Because he wanted to be there when they heard something. “Fury said you two had a talk earlier.”  
“Yup.”

“Said you might need some sort of comfort.” She was leaning against the door jam in jeans and a sweatshirt, looking as calm and as collected as she normally did except the hoodie was Clint’s. “I’m worried about him too.” Coulson nodded, he hadn’t even thought about what Natasha must be feeling. Clint was her best friend and he was missing and Phil knew that what he had with Clint was nothing like what she had.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be. Just cause you guys haven’t been together very long doesn’t make it any less real.”  
“We aren’t together.”  
“Yes you are. It might not be what you want it to be but you are very much together. In a relationship. You’re his husband as much as he is yours. He does care about you, might even love you if you gave him the chance. Everyone can tell.”  
“Nick said the same thing.”  
“Because its true.”

Phil was tired, he hadn’t really slept in days, blood pounded behind his temples. “Am I really such an idiot?”  
“All men are. Even the director. Especially the director. Don’t take it personally, Coulson. And Clint’s a man too, so its double the idiocy."  
“Thanks Natasha.” He didn’t mean it sarcastically, he really did appreciate her own brand of caring.

Natasha finally fully entered the room and leaned so she was at his eye level, “All I want is for you and Clint to be happy. Together. Apart. It doesn’t matter to me. You can be gay or straight or anything in between or nothing at all. Just don’t hurt him. And don’t let him hurt you. I know you’re a grown ass man who believes in loyalty above all else but don’t let that hurt you. When the whole marriage business started, you were afraid that Clint would think of it only as a mission and forget that it was personal, that it was his life. I think you’ve done that yourself. Clint’s safety isn’t your mission. He isn’t your mission at all. This isn’t a mission. This is your life. Don’t let S.H.I.E.L.D. corrupt that.” 

She kissed his forehead and he felt his eye lids flutter shut. He couldn’t formulate the right words before she was gone. He blinked sluggishly around his office. Natasha had been wrong. Clint’s safety was his mission. Had been since he said “I do.” Or maybe since he picked up that skinny little punk in a back alley. He had to find him, get him home. But a nap had to come first.

He dreamed about Clint. Never anything concrete but his laugh echoing in the corners of Phil’s mind, the way the back of his neck smelled, his cooking, his fingers wrapped around something, his lips puckered to slurp up soup, him calling out ‘daddy’ in that hotel room, his eyes. The images never made a full person, just vague shapes and sounds and memories. And Coulson woke up even more desperate to find him.

When the sleep cleared from his eyes, Phil realized that to find Clint he couldn’t do it as Agent Coulson. It would be too suspicious. He’d have to go under cover, pull out an old alias and have a reason for snooping around St. Paul that wasn’t looking for his husband, agent, for Clint. He told Agent May, an amazing field agent who for some reason decided to become Fury’s office assistant, that he was going home to get some food and sleep and that if Fury asked that he would be back in soon. She did not look like she believed him but Phil knew that her face displayed whatever version of displeasure you expected to see.

He strode into the apartment with confidence. He had the beginning of a plan and all he needed was to find the lock box that had his collection of identities and passports. He knew the box was in a closet, up high, but he had a couple of safe boxes and a few different key boxes hidden all around the apartment to make it difficult for anyone to get into anything if they broke into his apartment to find out all of S.H.I.E.L.D’s secrets. Eventually he located all of the boxes and all of keys and started to open each one and dig through the contents because he couldn’t remember witch box held what stuff. The first box he opened had a couple different firearms. The second his birth certificate, social security card, his mother’s wedding ring, and few other personal things. The third was full of cash in neat, bundled stacks, he grabbed two rolls before shutting that box and locking it back. Box number four was completely new to him, he opened it up and recognized nothing, turning over the paper he realized that it was Clint’s box, it held his birth certificate as well as his brother’s and Coulson could not begin to guess how Clint had managed to find them and he had to stop himself from digging around in Clint’s personal effects. The fifth box was empty other then a scrap of notebook paper with nothing written on it. 

In the sixth and final box, Coulson did not remember having that many separate boxes, he discovered where he had stashed his porn before bringing Clint home. He blushed at some of the titles and cursed his brain for being so honest when he was tired and horny. He fumbled a disk case entiled “Daddy’s Needy Slut Begs for Cock” with a picture of a young man on his knees with his tongue out and stripped with come out of the way and finally found what he’d been looking for the entire time during his trip down nostalgia lane. He thumbed through his option for personas before deciding on James Black, who used to work for Stark Industries and possibly Ian Quinn. It might be a bit too sciency but both those name inspired fear and made him seem powerful, which were both things he could use.

Phil hid all the boxes and keys and started to pack. Suits went in the garment bag, tack gear, underwear, socks, and casual clothes in the suitcase with a toiletry bag that he always kept prepacked. He tucked his gun in a hidden pocket along with his actual information card. A quick trip to a bank to deposit some money into Mr. Blacks checking account and Phil was on his way to the airport. He passed through security easy enough using old techniques that he no longer thought about to get the gun through customs. He bought a hamburger and missed Clint’s cooking. Then he called Maria. “Hey, I’m going out of town for a couple days.”  
“You’re going to go find Clint.”  
“No, no. I just need to get out. Apartment seems too big without him.”  
“You’re apartment is a shoe box and you just ran a debit card at an airport under the name James Black. I invented James Black when we were super Harry Potter nerds and Pepper Potts owed me a favor.”  
“How is Pepper? Do you two still meet up for coffee and naked cuddling?”  
“Phil. I can’t let you do this. You have no backup and honestly not much intel on this mission to begin with.”

The paint on the chair in the boarding area for Coulson’s flight was chipping under his fingernails as he picked at it. Hill sighed against his ear and he could sense her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows through the phone. “You haven’t even noticed the six agents I have monitoring you. You’re compromised, Phil, and I have to take you in.” 

Suddenly he saw the four men and the two women who were placed around him, pretending to read or talk on the phone. “Maria, no, you can’t do this! I have to find him!”  
“And you won’t get far all worked up like this. Now, are you going to stay calm and follow these agents out the door or are you going to make them chase you first?”  
“Fuck you, Maria.”  
“Phil, you know I have to do this.”

Coulson collected himself mentally and hoped that S.H.I.E.L.D. would at least have the decency to pick up his luggage on the way out. “I know. I’ll go quietly. Don’t wanna make a scene.”  
“Thank you.”

Hill hung up the phone and for a moment Phil contemplated running. He wouldn’t get very far, he knew that. S.H.I.E.L.D. would find him and it’s not like he wanted to be forced to leave his job. He loved his job. So he stood up slowly, waited for the agents to form a loose barrier around him, and headed for the exit.

When they got back to Headquarters Maria was waiting for him. She shooed the rest of the agents away and led Phil back to her own office. “So.” She said, moving a pile of papers and folders off of one of the two chairs in front of her desk. Coulson sat when she pointed at the chair, waiting for her to continue. Hill didn’t for a while. She sat down in her office chair, tapped her fingers against the wood of her desk, and eventually buried her head in her arms. “What are you gonna do with you?”  
“I was wondering the same thing.”  
“We aren’t going to contain you. You’re free to go anywhere on base.”  
“Not home?”  
“I thought you didn’t want to go back there.”

Maria removed her shoes and redid her chignon. “Phil, I…I know you care about Clint deeply and want to protect him and take care of him. I know that and I understand that and so does the director. But if we didn’t you would be in even more trouble. You went rouge, Coulson. You could have seriously fucked up the mission that Agent Barton is on. What if someone recognized you? What if something happened to you and Agent Barton decided that helping you is more important that completing his mission objective? You put not just yourself at risk but Agent Barton, your husband, and every other agent he’s there with. And if you or anyone of them gets hurt, S.H.I.E.L.D. gets hurt. The director and I have agreed to suspend you for three months so you can get your shit together.”  
“Maria…! I-I. I understand.”

Coulson felt his vision becoming fuzzy. S.H.I.E.L.D., work, was his life. “Phil, I’m so sorry.”  
“No, I am.”  
“He’s gonna be fine. He’ll come back.”  
“Am I dismissed, Deputy Director Hill?”

“Phil, you don’t have to-“ Coulson didn’t twitch, just kept staring at a spot an inch over Maria’s shoulder. “Yes, Agent Coulson, you are free to leave.”

Coulson speed walked to his office, fingers jabbing at the keypad to enter his authorization code. He growled when the door remained locked and the screen told him he no longer had access to that area. Phil knew his breath was coming in gasps and that he was in the middle of a fucking hallway, locked out of his own goddamn office. He hurried quickly down the hallway and to the right, bursting into the men’s room. He thanked god that no one was in there before locking himself in a stall and letting the tears and snot run down his chin and collect in a wad of toilet paper. The air smelled like piss and he felt like shit. How could he have been so stupid? He hadn’t been able to bring Clint home on his own and now he couldn’t even help S.H.I.E.L.D. do it.

He sulked for days. Moved from his bed to the couch and back again. The apartment was chocking him. He wondered if this was how Clint felt for all those months. Trapped. Desperate. Lonely. He wanted his life back. Before Clint. When he wasn’t confronted with his own desires every time he woke up or came home or talked to his best friends. He wanted to do his job. The one he loved so much that he knew he would die doing it. He wanted a lot of things. He wanted Clint. His cooking. His laugh. His body. His heart. Phil wanted everything Clint could offer him. To have and to hold. Till do them part. Forever and ever. Amen.

The apartment was full of memories now. Of good times and bad. Of laughter and fights. Because it wasn’t like they had never fought. They had. Stupid arguments about towels or socks or being in each other’s hair. While they had been close and familiar for years, living with someone was different and it brought out the worst in both of them. All the quirks and preferences and oddities. Things that annoyed or worried the other.They would fight and then pout about it. And Clint becoming less of a perfect man made him all the better in Phil’s eyes. Clint was then more accessible and less like a fantasy. He was really there. Really eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. Really turning the volume up way too loud. Really existing in a way that made Coulson crave to be with him. 

Phil sulked for the first few weeks. He allowed himself to wallow in self pity. It was sort of enjoyable to just laze around in his pajamas and eat whenever he felt like it, to get up just before noon and get back to bed thirteen hours later. The days started to blend together, they all became one giant mass and Coulson realized he was bored. Mind numbingly bored. So he went to the gym. He went grocery shopping. He started trying to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D. which led him to have Hill as an impromptu diner guest. He stopped trying to crack the system and resigned himself to the idea that if he wanted to ever get his job back he needed to be on his best behavior. He started to wait in earnest. For the probation period to over. For Clint to come home. For his life to start again.

*~*~*

Phil Coulson had never come out. He dated girls in highschool because they were lovely and finding another boy who liked boys seemed rather daunting. He questioned whether he was gay or not often throughout his teenage years. He liked girls. Their bodies, their smell, their attitudes. He liked boys. Their bodies, their smell, their attitudes. He liked them in the same way. And when he found out that what he was experiencing had a name, was a real thing, he felt like maybe he should come out. But he never did. He was bisexual. That was that. His parents died before he ever got a boyfriend and might have to explain his sexuality to them and the older couple never asked about his love life to begin with. With the army he always knew that he never could. With S.H.I.E.L.D. he felt like he was too old and not gay enough for it to matter. Maria figured it out and so did Fury. Phil always assumed that Natasha just knew. And Clint hadn’t known until the proposal. Or maybe he did. Maybe it really was such a nonissue.

Coulson’s relationships had never lasted longer than a few months. Other agents were risky for numerous reasons and civilians were so innocent, they could never know what he actually did for a living, where he went for days at a time without ever telling them where he was or when he’d be back. Some seemed worth it, like Audrey, others not quite so much. But they always ended.

Sex was easier by far to come by than love. Love needed honesty, sex just needed two participants. And Phil had found a few. At bars mostly. He could be an excellent flirt. Put on just the right moves for the girl or guy to follow him into a hotel room and get on their backs. They were usually very good at leaving in the morning, after fucking their way to exhaustion, never asking for anything more than his mouth and his dick. 

Throughout his lifetime of casual sex with strangers on hotel sheets, Coulson had realized just how not casual what he really wanted in a sexual partner was. He wanted submission. He wanted bowed heads and hands folded neatly behind backs. He wanted to punish and cherish and make them flush with both pride and humiliation. He wanted things that required more trust than most one night stands could offer. He understood and accepted that.

Eventually, he had stopped looking, because he figured that he wasn’t really getting anything from it. He could get himself off. He had hands and lube and porn. Also, no one’s eyes had ever been blue or green or gray enough. No one’s smirk was sweet enough. No one was Clint, Phil had belatedly realized. 

But Clint was far away and not really his. And all the tension of not doing anything was building up. Not working. Not trying to resist Clint. So Phil put on nice clothes, he shaved, he put on cologne. He walked to a bar with the number for a cab written on a sticky note stuck to his phone, and a key card to hotel in his wallet. He went in with the full intention of getting laid. But all he felt was guilt as he watched the young people dance and drink and flirt and kiss. Because he had a husband. A husband who cared about him and was currently on the other side of the world trying to protect his nation’s values. His husband who was gorgeous and considerate and who may have never even implied that he even wanted to sleep with him but Coulson knew that the vows he had made meant that he had pledged his fidelity. To his husband. To Clint goddamn Barton.

A small, slip of a thing slid onto the bar stool beside him, dressed in a tank top and holey jeans. He purred something filthy in Phil’s general direction that made Coulson’s blood run hot. He gave the kid, he was younger than Barton, a small smile, and turned his attention back to his drink, feeling like he should leave but that he didn’t want to crush the kid’s confidence. The boy, or man Phil supposed, sat for awhile, all of his ‘accidental’ brushes light against Coulson’s clothes but when the kid got fed up he not so gently tapped the ring on Phil’s left fourth finger and told him to go fuck himself. Phil left the kid at the bar and called the cab and went home. To his empty apartment. To marathon Sherlock or something else. Without Clint’s hilarious commentary.

*~*~*

Phil woke up with a start. Someone was in the apartment, talking in low voices with someone else. Probably female by the pitch, also too cheery for whatever ungodly time of morning it was. Coulson grabbed his sidearm and as quietly as he possibly could, made his way into the main living area. The TV was on and illuminating the couch in a blue glow. “Phil?” Coulson placed the gun on the counter as Clint lifted himself off the couch and walked towards him.

“You’re back.” Phil said, feeling dumb for stating the obvious but it had been a weird few weeks and he wasn’t putting it past himself for all of this to be an elaborate booze dream.

Clint smiled. “Yeah I’m back. Been back for a couple of days and was shocked when you were not on base to debrief me.”  
“Yeah there was a situation and I may be on a suspension.”  
“Is that so?”

Coulson looked Clint over as Clint continued to smile at him. There were no signs of injury, not even a limp, maybe Clint was a little slimmer, maybe his muscles were not quite as defined, but he looked fine. Clint’s smile faltered and a blush started to crawl up his cheeks. “Did you miss me, sir?” He asked, sounding quiet and shy. Phil leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against Clint’s slightly parted lips. 

“I missed you so much.” He said a fraction of an inch away from where Clint’s breath had started to come in sharp gasps.  
“Sir?”

Coulson pulled back sharply, “I’m so sorry. That was totally inappropriate…”

Clint’s mouth was on his, breath warm and lips damp, cutting off the apology Phil was desperately trying to make. The kiss was addicting and Coulson chased it when Clint pulled back. “It’s been a long two months, sir.”

*~*~*

“We are gathered here today to witness the vows of Clinton F. Barton and Phillip J. Coulson.” Fury said to a room full of people. Natasha and Maria were dressed to the nines, standing next to their respective groom. “They are as special as they are idiotic. I do not have the words to describe them fully. I am proud to call them my friends.”  
Phil glanced over at the man next to him, grin splitting his face. This was the one year anniversary of their first wedding and it had seemed a good as time as any to renew their vows when they really meant them. But it still passed in a blur for Coulson. He just felt it all more.  
After super and cake they went back to their apartment. Clint toed off his shoes and giggled something about Daddy taking his boy on their wedding night. But before he could act on it, Phil needed to give his husband his wedding gift. Clint tore the wrapping paper with enthusiasm laughing loudly when he saw the blender that laid beneath. “Alright your turn,” he said, handing a smaller box to Phil. Phil opened it, not sure what he was expecting, to reveal a Hufflepuff mug. “Thank you for being you,” Clint whispered, “Thank you for keeping me.”  
Phil wanted to say something sweet back because Clint deserved every kind word in the dictionary, but Clint was dragging him to the bedroom and all Phil could do was thank god for Harry Potter and friends.


End file.
